


Between

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Easter Egg Challenge 2015, Gen, in memoriam Svetlanacat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:17:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something has changed. An Easter Egg for Yelizaveta, dedicated to the memory of our dear Cousin Svetlanacat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between

 

 

Her eyes open. Bright, it's so bright, like summer sun in the garden. Her skin tingles pleasantly. She can smell lilacs.

Where...?

Here.

She whirls around. The movement feels oddly weightless. _Zut alors,_ who said that?

My apologies, my dear. I didn't mean to startle you.

She sees him, an elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman in vintage tweeds, a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth. A wisp of smoke rises from the bowl.

You didn't startle me, she says, to be kind.

The old man's answering smile warms her heart.

His face is a roadmap of crags, and his eyebrows are astonishingly bushy – they remind her of the tangle of bittersweet at the back of her garden. There is something so...

You seem familiar, _Monsieur?_ Do I know you?

Alexander Waverly, at your service. He makes a small bow.

Waverly? She cannot place the name, but for some reason, she pictures yellow triangles, sleek chrome and gunmetal walls. Are you a relative, _Monsieur?_ An...uncle, perhaps?

He smiles. You could say that.

Strange old man, she thinks. She's feeling rather dizzy at the moment. Her head is spinning, the way it does when she gets off _La Centrifuge_ at the Saint Symphorian's Day Fair. She takes several deep breaths, but it doesn't help. She looks around for a chair, but there's no furniture, nothing to sit on.

You've had a long journey, my dear. Do sit down.

She looks again, and suddenly there is an overstuffed club chair two paces to her left. It's covered in a lovely chintz – pink cabbage roses and white chrysanthemums. Where did that come from?

Does it matter?

She decides that it doesn't. She sits, clutching the chair's plump arms like an anchor. She feels its solidity enfold her.

Better?

 _Oui, merci._ She hesitates, wondering how to phrase her next question. You say I've had a long journey, _Monsieur_ , but I don't...exactly...remember taking a trip. In truth, she doesn't remember anything at all. Her mind is a complete blank.

That's common in the beginning. Don't give it another thought.

The beginning? She frowns. Beginning of what?

She glances at her surroundings again, but recognizes nothing. There are no familiar landmarks, no signposts to point her way. Where am I, she wonders? What is this place?

Don't you know?

For an instant she thinks that maybe she does, but then it's gone. She shakes her head.

Waverly puffs away on his pipe. Don't worry, my dear. It will come to you.

I seem to have gotten turned around, she remarks uncertainly. I was on my way to... to where? Where was I going? She cannot recall. She knows the blank spaces in her mind aren't right, shouldn't be there. _Mon Dieu_ , what's wrong with me?

The old gentleman isn't listening. He's examining his pipe, turning it this way and that, as though it's a puzzle box whose secret he must unlock. His entire attention is fixed on the problem; he seems to have forgotten she's there.

Please, _Monsieur._ You must have some idea where we are? 

Waverly glances up. Where do _you_ think you are? he inquires mildly.

 _Zut alors,_ how should I know?! She glares at him, but he merely stares back at her from under those bushy brows.

In the branches of an ancient apple tree, a thrush begins to sing. Thrush? _Merde_ , that can't be good. And where did the tree come from, anyway? It wasn't there a minute ago. Oh, it's all too mysterious! What I wouldn't give to see a friendly face right - 

An image flashes into her mind – a young man, pale and slender, with blond hair soft as silk, eyes the brilliant blue of a summer sky. Elias? Ivan? No...

Illya! she shouts triumphantly. She has remembered something.

Mr. Kuryakin? The old gentleman chuckles. One of my best. I daresay everything about that man is a mystery. Even I don't know the whole story.

She grins, pleased to have remembered the beautiful young Russian. No, wait...he was a Soviet, wasn't he? That's right. It was years ago, decades, during the Cold War... And there's someone else...someone with him. Dark hair, warm brown eyes, devil-may-care smile...an American? Napoleon!

Wavery nods. Napoleon Solo. Chief Enforcement Agent, Section Two. Very good.

She breathes a sigh of relief. Things are coming back to her. Coming to light.

The light – there's something strange about it, the way it surrounds her, growing brighter with each passing second, as though she's the center of its attention. It reminds her of a spotlight from a movie set, shining down on...

...two men in a blue convertible pulling up to a dry cleaners...

 _Quoi?_ She rubs her eyes.

Illya in a burnoose – a glassful of guppies – a red ring –

_Ce qui se passe?_

– a silly gorilla – oh, fiddlesticks! – blue pajamas –

The images fly at her, like a film on fast-forward. Some are in black and white, while others explode with color. She recoils instinctively, seeking solace in the solidity of the chair –

\- a swarm of bees – a hula doll – goodnight Harvey Muller – seal blubber – Quadrapartite and Acquitine – Terbuf and Strigas – Portuguese Translations and Evasion Pattern Eight and Summit Five and Section Two and Isle of Dogs Number Twenty-Two and –

– a garden with cats a school for girls LiveJournal stories photographs manips choir rehearsals friends Cousins a pocket quilt sweet Patachou and Orange a hospital a final, ragged breath –!

_Mon dieu._

Sylvaine remembers. The bitter burn of morphine. The pain. The cancer that took her life.

Waverly's eyes are kind. Do you see now?

She stares at him in shock. I've – died?

That's right.

Her first thought is for her cats; she wonders what will happen to Patachou and Orange now that she's gone. _Mes petits choux_ , she whispers. She aches to hold them.

They will be well-cared for. Your friends will see to it.

Sylvaine relaxes. It's a relief, she admits, knowing that her terrible ordeal is over. Still, this is all so strange; it's too much to take in. I'm dead, but I'm here. How can that be? How can I be _here_ when I'm not _anywhere..._ when I'm...? Her head is swimming. Maybe if she closes her eyes for a moment...

She opens her eyes again, but nothing has changed. Waverly's still standing there, chuffing on his pipe. She sighs.

He's reading a dossier now. The cover is stamped Eyes Only in bold black letters; her name is written in blue pen beneath the stamp. Waverly skims the contents thoughtfully; the smell of tobacco fills Sylvaine's nostrils.

She hesitates. Is this...Heaven?

Waverly's bushy eyebrows arch. It depends on your point of view, I suppose. Paradise, Valhalla, Summerland, Jannah, The Other Side. He chuckles. Amusing, the way humanity loves to label things. I'm rather fond of “Section One,” myself. It has a nice, official ring to it, don't you think?

Section One. The thought makes her giggle for some reason.

He closes the dossier, lays it aside. Well, my dear, everything seems to be in order. If you're in agreement, I think we may consider The Sylvaine Affair closed.

The light is incredibly bright now, blindingly bright. In the distance, she can hear someone singing, a warm, soft contralto...

_Fait dodo, cola mon petit frère..._

She gasps. _Maman?_

_Fait dodo, t'auras du lolo..._

The Light is inside her now, a shimmering mote of awesome brilliance. She watches it expand, filling her with...she can't name the feeling, but it's...it's so...

_...Maman est en haut, qui fait du gateau; Papa est en bas, qu'il fait du chocolat..._

Sylvaine looks down at her hands; they are translucent. Her body feels weightless, insubstantial, as though her cells are floating away, the molecules drifting skyward to merge with the distant stars. She thinks of the violet milkweed in her garden, the spores carried away on the summer breeze.

Carried away to new ground. A new garden.

Shall we go? Waverly asks. He holds out his hand.

 _Oui, d'accord_.

Sylvaine rises, releasing the final threads of her old life. She reaches for the hand; takes one step. Another.

Oh look! she cries. There are daffodils! She begins to run.

*/*/*/

 

 


End file.
